


Wet

by bigolegay



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Desperation, Face-Fucking, Humiliation, I'm sorry Mum, M/M, Piss Play, Spanking, Watersports, Wetting, minor bondage, pure filth, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 02:25:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15109877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigolegay/pseuds/bigolegay
Summary: It hadn’t meant to be like this.Perkins liked to pride himself on knowing things. Things about the world, things about people, things about himself. He knew the best way to manipulate a mind, the best way to undermine someone’s success. He knew how to make someone think they were your friend. He knew how to appear menacing at only 5’5’’ tall. He knew what got him off, and he was only partially ashamed by it. But apparently Perkins did not know his limits.Or, Perkins wets himself and his big android boyfriend makes him feel filthy for it.





	Wet

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, ancestors.   
> Please read this fic with the knowledge that there is piss play, humiliation play and a little pain play in here. If you're not into that I really don't need to know just... go find something else to read.   
> If you're interested in finding out more information on these two, you should check out Heavy Thirst which is the server where this all started. https://discord.gg/9wYQgWW  
> Benjamin is a lovely character created by a couple of friends and is part of an AU thingy that they developed on a Discord server I am a part of. I'm super excited to write something utterly filthy about it tbh. Please do enjoy the fic if it's your thing!

It hadn’t meant to be like this.

Perkins liked to pride himself on knowing things. Things about the world, things about people, things about himself. He knew the best way to manipulate a mind, the best way to undermine someone’s success. He knew how to make someone think they were your friend. He knew how to appear menacing at only 5’5’’ tall. He knew what got him off, and he was only partially ashamed by it. But apparently Perkins did not know his limits.

He was crying. It was ridiculous, it was fucking _ridiculous,_ but he was crying. The bathroom was ten feet away but his feet were locked. If he had only gone ten minutes previously perhaps he’d not be in this situation, but he, the fool, had wanted more. He had stood from his place on the couch and made his way to the kitchen and got himself a cold drink. And now he was standing at the kitchen table, knees locked, hand tucked around his cock in his sweatpants and squeezing tight as he sweated and cried because _fuck_ … he was gonna piss himself.

His bladder spasmed painfully and there was nothing he could do to stop the first weak stream from dribbling out. It curled over the ball-bearing of the piercing by his slit and ran down his leg, a hot little stream. Even over the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears and his panting Perkins could hear it hiss out. His sweats were loose, not yet damaged, but his sock felt damp at the cuff as he finally clenched hard enough to stop.

He could do this, he told himself, he could get to the bathroom. Fuck, even if he couldn’t get to the toilet he could stumble into the shower cubicle, piss himself in there, and wash away the evidence afterwards. He inched a socked foot forward on the tiles, one gentle step of many. Okay, he thought, and tried to ignore the stench of his sweat as he stopped clenching the kitchen table and made his way towards the bathroom door. He smelled of fear.

Another step, and something relaxed in Perkins’ chest. He _could_ do this. No problem. Just a little way further and there’d be no more pain, no more panic. Another step. His grip shifted on his cock, fabric sliding quick over the metal of his piercings, and then suddenly he _couldn’t_ do this. He couldn’t do it at all, and that dam broke.

He panicked, trying to grip at his head, to clench again, but it was too late. The sound of his piss leaving his cock was lewd and loud, and it hit against the inside of his sweatpants with a damp spatter. For a moment Perkins opened his eyes, looked down at himself, and he saw the leg of his sweatpants turning from light grey to an almost black before the tears were too much, blurring beyond recognition, and he closed his eyes with a hissed, “ _Shit._ ”

His leg was hot, wet with it, the fabric quickly clinging to him, saturated and shiny. A puddle started forming at his feet, small and then larger and larger and – fuck, how much had he been holding? It ran into the grout between the tiles, and Perkins muttered curses over and over. Despite himself it felt fucking good, the relief on his bladder palpable, and he let out a small moan of satisfaction and remorse. The flat had felt cold, chilly, and in contrast his piss was blistering hot. He curled his toes in it and shuddered through another, deeper grunt.

Eventually he could give no more, and though he knew he was empty Perkins still felt the ghost of his desperation caught tense in his cock, making it twitch where it hung against his thigh.

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” he said, looking down at the mess he had made of himself. His piss was obvious on the pale tiles of the floor, spreading out from his drenched leg in the middle. He could smell it now, heavy in the air, and shit he hoped he could air the place out before Ben got back, or at least enough that he could blame it on Special Agent Pug. The panic in his mind receded – there was no more point to it, not now that the damage had been done – and in the wake of the adrenaline Perkins felt tired, boneless.

He picked at the front of his sweatpants, feeling the wet fabric on his left leg peel away at the movement and then cling once more. With yet another curse he pushed them over his hips and down, peeling them off and then stepping on top of them, trying to soak up some of his mess with what dry fabric there was.

He pulled off his socks next, each falling with a wet slap to the floor, and then wiped his hands on the bottom of his shirt. Then he heard the latch.

Perkins prided himself on knowing things, but apparently he did not know his limits _or_ the time.

His eyes shot to the clock above the fridge. Had it been that long already? Ben was back, he had to be, and there Perkins was stood half-naked in a puddle of his own piss, reeking of it, face tear-streaked. He wiped hurriedly at his cheeks and chin, sniffling to clear his long nose. He’d rather face this looking at least slightly like he meant it to happen. And what would Ben do, anyhow? What would Ben think? Why care?

Perkins knew he cared, and he knew Ben cared, too, but that was a frightening thought and caused all sorts of internal conflicts best solved with cheap vodka, so he ignored it, stuck his chin out proudly, and waited for Ben to appear in the doorway.

When Ben appeared he barely paused, just a second to stop at the threshold, meeting Perkins’ eyes and then scattering a look about the room. His LED cleared circled in amber, and Perkins knew he was analysing, scanning, putting together the events that led up to his current situation. But Ben was silent, simply taking the bags of groceries past Perkins with an exaggerated step over his puddle and placing them on the countertop.

“Are you going to clean that up?” Ben asked, not looking back at Perkins as he pulled a box of cereal from the bags and slotted it perfectly into a space in the cupboard. Perkins felt himself run hot with anger and shame.

“You’re an AP700 model,” he stated, and tried not to flush at his voice, hoarse and gummy at the same time from crying. “You clean it up.”

“I’m busy, Agent Perkins.” Ben said, looking over his shoulder and down at Perkins, a jam jar held aloft. “Or do you need a hand?” he cast a suggestive look down at Perkins’ cock where it hung uncovered. Perkins cast a glance down at himself, already knowing he wasn’t exactly limp, knowing it from the moment Ben stepped into the room, all broad shoulders and blonde hair, and scanned him, filthy and embarrassed and _ashamed_.

Silently, Perkins clenched his jaw shut and started to make his way towards the utility closet. But Ben was there, quickly, knee at the back of his, one hand on his shoulder, another in his hair, and Perkins was suddenly on his knees in his own piss, head forced down and towards it.

“Not like that,” Ben said, voice firm but gentle around the words. Then he came closer, voice dropping into something warm and intimate. “Is this okay?” he asked, hand loosening its grip in Perkins’ hair.

Perkins nodded, suddenly wanting it, wanting it more than he ever thought he could want _anything_.

The wasn’t the first time they’d fucked, wasn’t the first time their relationship moved into the physical, but it was certainly the first time it was like this.

Ben snapped back into his previous tone and pushed harder, forcing Perkins down until his nose touched the puddle, cool now. His eyes welled up with fresh tears as he was humiliated, nose pushed into it like a dog.

“Go on,” Ben said, “If you’re a good boy and you clean it all up I’ll mitigate your punishment.”

Perkins shivered, panted, his cock throbbing at the promise in those words, and then his tilted his head, placed his lips against the tiles, and slurped up a mouthful of clear piss. It didn’t taste of much, and for that he was thankful. Just salt, a little acrid, something slightly unpleasant and sharp. He swallowed, fought the instinct to bring it back up, and moved to the next part of the puddle.

Ben let go of his hair and stood, no longer crouching beside him. Then his foot nudged Perkins’ head to one side and forced him down, hair soaking in his mess, jaw aching under the weight of Ben’s foot. Perkins whimpered.

“That’s it, get all disgusting and wet. Look at you, unable to even hold your fucking piss.”

Perkins whimpered again, shifting uncomfortably against the hard tiles, his cock growing heavy and thick between his legs. Ben’s foot left his head and he scrambled over the tiles to the next place where the puddle still pooled, lapping at the tiles, desperate to be called disgusting again, to be called out for his behaviour.

“Filthy,” Ben muttered, his foot on Perkins’ back now, forcing him down into it – cold and wet and soaking through his t-shirt. Perkins gasped, then wheezed as Ben applied just the right amount of pressure to make it hard to breath.  “Down,” he ordered, and a hand swatted Perkins’ backside, making him jump before he gingerly lowered his bottom half to the floor. The cold wet tile on his cock has him gasping again against Ben’s weight, and he found his soaked sweatpants, holding them tight in his fists.

“Couldn’t hold it, could you?” Ben was saying, voice deep and mocking, and Perkins burned with shame as he writhed on the tile floor. “Could you?” he asked again, pointed this time. In reply Perkins shook his head as much as he could.

“The toilet’s right there but you couldn’t even make it. Tell me,” Ben took his foot off of Perkins’ back, crouching down at his side, “did it feel good when you wet yourself?”

Perkins squirmed, face hot as he remembered the relief mingled with the utter shame and mortification. He nodded, eyes locked onto Ben’s, and saw the kind way they crinkled even has his mouth sneered.

“Did you moan?” Ben asked, and Perkins nodded again.

“Yes,” he said, voice small and hoarse.

“Did you touch yourself?”

“No,” he replied.

Ben looked over his face as if searching for a lie. Perkins knew that if there was one there that Ben, modified as he was, would have been able to see it immediately. This was simply to intimidate him, and fuck if it wasn’t working.

“Next time you piss your knickers,” he said, and Perkins shivered, “I want you to touch yourself.”

Perkins’ mind scattered. _Next time_ , Ben said, like there would be one, and like he would know, and like he would be a part of it, some order in the back of Perkins’ mind to touch his pissing cock, coax it to hardness, what the stream split and gush. He swallowed deeply and nodded.

“Good boy,” Ben said, and with a hand on Perkin’s shoulder pushed at him to roll onto his back. His front was soaked, the shirt see-through now, his pierced nipples obvious, his tattoos hazy through the fabric. “But not good enough,” he tutted, three small sounds, and shook his head at the wet puddle still on the floor.

Perkins looked at it nervously, at _Ben_ nervously, his cock heavy and hard where it stood from his crotch. Ben reached out, tracing the bud of one of Perkins’ nipples through his shirt with tenderness and then the line of a tattoo until he was over Perkins’ solar plexus. Then his other hand joined, they gripped at the fabric, and ripped. Perkins yelped in surprise as in three short jabs his shirt was decimated, hanging either side of him like some dreadful piss-soaked shrug.

“Sit up,” Ben ordered, and he did so, breath coming fast now. Ben peeled the shirt off of him, down his arms and off, then with a firm grip on the nape of Perkins’ neck forced him back onto his front. He gathered Perkins’ hands, tugged them behind his back, and Perkins didn’t resist as he wrapped the soaked fabric around his wrists, wringing it out as he did, drips of piss falling on Perkins’ arse and back.

“Too tight?” Ben asked in that warmer voice again when he was done, and Perkins tested his bonds. He could slip out if he needed.

“It’s alright,” he said in way of reply, and Ben put a warm, comforting hand on his back in acknowledgement.

Then that hand disappeared and reappeared between his legs. Ben took his sac in his hand, squeezed just the stinging side of too tight, and tugged up. Panting, sweating, Pekins scrambled to get his knees under him and raise his arse into the air. Ben was kneeling now, his trousers getting wet, and he tucked his knees under Perkins’ torso. Perkins knew what was coming next and braced himself for it, teeth clenched together, eyes shut.

The first slap was against skin to wet and slippery to be very painful, Ben’s hand skimming off and sending a few thin drips of piss flying. Perkins still gasped, fingers clenching and toes curling. The second one was worse, hard and stinging, wet skin softer, more sensitive. In its wake came a bloom of heat, and Perkins knew his pale skin would be red. He closed his eyes, focusing on the warmth of Ben’s leg under his chest, the hardness of the tile under his knees and skull, the smell of his piss, the shame coiling in his belly and the arousal that curled with it.

Ben hit him hard, each slap landing precisely on one or other of his cheeks or upper thighs, until he was yelping with each new stinging swat.

“Do I have to gag you?” Ben asked as Perkins yelled out another profanity.

Perkins moaned in response, eyes slipping to Ben, over his broad chest, his thick muscled shoulders. Ben grabbed one of the socks Perkins had been wearing, still soaked through, squeezed out the excess liquid, and then shoved it firmly into Perkins mouth until his protests were muffled.

“There we go. Be good and quiet whilst I mete out your punishment, hm?”

Perkins whined, the sock making everything dull, tasting foul and cloying on his tongue.

“If you can’t take it anymore, let go of my hand.” Ben said, and slipped his fingers into Perkins’, who gripped them firmly.

The next series of slaps were more painful then the last, ending with Perkins jumping with each one, trying his best to get away from them but unable to move with Ben over him, under him. He held onto Ben’s hand for dear life, desperate through the pain, desperate _because_ of the pain. When finally Ben stopped, tracing the backs of his fingers delicately over the sore flesh instead, Perkins was sobbing, struggling to breathe through the sock, his nose quickly blocking up.

“Shhhh,” Ben hushed, pulling his fingers from Perkins’ grasp and then fishing the sock from out of his mouth. Perkins gasped in a great mouthful of air, chest heaving as he tried to regain some sense of control.

“You did so very well,” Ben said, soothing, calming, his hand now on Perkins’ back and rubbing back and forth through his sobs. “Look, feel what you’ve done to me.” With a shift, Ben pressed his crotch against Perkins’ upper stomach, and Perkins could easily feel Ben’s hard cock through his trousers.

He moaned, eyes fluttering shut, and Ben stroked his fingers through Perkins’ soaked hair.

“Do you want it?” he asked, and took his hand from Perkins’ back to gently touch the raw skin of his arse.

Perkins swallowed dryly. “In my mouth,” he croaked, and shuddered as Ben pressed a thumb to the red flesh of his glutes.

“Hmm, yes, I do suppose that after all this it makes sense you’d be thirsty for my come.” Ben mused, and Perkins felt his eyes roll back into his skull even with his eyes closed as he whimpered at the thought, at the words.

Ben’s hand in his hair tightened and then tugged and Perkins struggled to kneel up, blinking his eyes open to see where they were headed. Ben stood, towering over Perkins, and half-dragged him towards the table, steadying him against one thick wooden leg, pinning his head against the edge of the table top.

“There we go,” he murmured, still keeping Perkins in place with the hand in his hair as he pushed his trousers down to just under his sac. Ben’s cock was big. Thick, cut, heavy-looking. Without even thinking about it Perkins opened his mouth, tongue out, waiting for it to be pushed inside.

Ben chuckled. “Such an eager little slut,” he laughed, and tapped it against Perkins’ cheeks. First one, then the other. Perkins made a little grunting sound at each one, his tongue following Ben’s cock, the hand in his hair still holding his tightly in one place.

“If it’s too much, give a little teeth,” Ben told him, and then his cockhead was bushing into Perkins’ mouth, stretching his jaw wide enough to ache. Perkins whimpered around him, mouth watering along with his eyes as more was fed into him until he felt he couldn’t take any more, until he was full.

“Come on,” Ben chuckled cruelly, “I know you can take more than that.” He pushed onwards, and Perkins felt his cock slide towards his throat, desperately trying to keep his gag reflex from activating.

“Shhh, shhh,” Ben hushed, slowly but firmly pressing forwards, “There we go. You’re doing so good.” He petted Perkins’ wet hair, the other hand tracing Perkins’ lips where they stretched wide around him. Perkins gagged, choked, and Ben stayed half a second before pulling back, letting Perkins pant and splutter, trying his best to regain control of his breathing.

“Do you not want my cock?” he asked, shaking Perkins by his hair.

Perkins nodded eagerly, desperately. “I want it, I want it,” he panted, hands flexing behind his back, his own erection twitching between his legs.

Ben waited a moment, eyeing Perkins until he felt flushed enough to look away, over to the side. He slapped his cheek with his cock again, wet this time.

“Come on, then.”

Ben fed his cock back into Perkins’ mouth and Perkins felt ready for it this time, mouth open wide, throat relaxed.

“Suck me,” he said, and Perkins did, tongue dancing over the underside of Ben’s cock, cheeks hollowing. He found gratification in the grunt Ben gave and tried to move further on his cock but the hand in his hair held him tight. Instead Ben shuffled forwards, his feet stable on the floor, and thrusted in.

It was slow going at first, Ben slowly thrusting in and out of his mouth, saying nothing but giving sounds of encouragement, his thick fingers tracing the corner of Perkins’ eye, the curl of his ear.

“Would you like it if I pissed in your mouth?” he asked as he fucked inside a little harder this time, and Perkins gasped through his nose, eyes going wide. He let out a muffled moan. _Yes_. “I bet you think about it all the time, don’t you? Men using you at their own personal toilet. Wet and filthy and chained up in a bathroom.”

Perkins clenched and unclenched his fists behind his back, desperate to hold onto something, to _do_ something. But all he could do was kneel there, knees aching, and moan as Ben thrust in and out of his mouth, cockhead coming close to his throat each time.

“Maybe I could go to CyberLife, ask for an upgrade that would allow me to do just that.” Ben panted as he grabbed at Perkins’ face, hand moving from his hair to the other side, head held firmly in place, jaw forced open. “I want to see their faces when they realise The Jackal likes to get pissed on. Wants to get pissed on by an android.”

Perkins tried to moan but was cut off by a thrust that hit the back of his throat. He gagged, breath stuttering in his nose, but Ben kept going.

“How does my cock taste, Agent? Is it good?” He pressed forwards again, tugging Perkins with both hands on his head and Perkins, prepared now, let Ben’s cock slip into his throat. His head was spinning, each word Ben says making him throb, sweat.

“Fuck, that’s right, take it in. So hungry for it, aren’t you?” He pulled back and out and Perkins gasped for air, eyes closed, mouth still open. There’s a spitting sound and something wet and warm fell into his mouth and Perkins moaned, humiliated, disgusted, and wholly aroused. He pointedly swallowed, and then opened his mouth again with a pitiful whine, looking up at Ben with bleary eyes.

Ben pushed back inside roughly, and all Perkins could do was relax his throat as much as possible and let him. Pinned against the table edge again he screwed his eyes up until they teared, and Ben fucked his mouth with abandon.

It was hot and rough and Perkins felt like he was going to combust. He was too big for his skin, throbbing with want, throbbing with need, and all of him felt pulled tight. There was nothing but Ben’s hands on his face, Ben’s cock in his mouth. He opened his eyes and peered up at the other looming over him, tears streaming down his cheeks with each thrust.

 “Fuck,” Ben muttered, the look on his face breaking from focused to something desperate and fragile, “ _Fuck_.” Then he was coming, lubricant tasting like plastic on Perkins’ tongue and then out, on his face, and Perkins scrunched his eyes closed, whimpering below Ben’s long low moan. One thread over his forehead, the next over his nose and just below the eye. He could hear Ben panting, felt his tap his wet cock on his cheek, smearing lubricant and spit over the bristles of his stubble.

“Oh, look at you,” Ben said, something like pity in his voice, and Perkins whined. “What a mess you are.”

And he knew it, he could feel it. Sweaty and piss-covered, tears and come of his face. He felt horrid, sticky, desperate beyond compare. He knew his cock was weeping, dripping precome on the tile below. He was hard to the point of hurting, and when Ben crouched down in front of him he shuddered.

“Please,” he said, throat raw and voice cracked.

Ben nodded, reaching the hand that had been on himself to Perkins’ cock and encompassing it easily. “Want me to tug off your tiny cock?” he asked, and Perkins felt more tears fall and mix with the sticky false-come on his cheeks. He nodded.

“Please,” he repeated, and then Ben took mercy on him, and in only a few movements of his hand Perkins was coming, sobbing and moaning as his cock spat come into Ben’s hand. The release was similar to the feeling when he’d wet himself earlier – relief, embarrassment. He felt drained, boneless, and as Perkins finally relaxed he felt a dribble of piss leave him and spill wetly over Ben’s palm, and flushed with shame.

“There we go,” Ben was saying, soothing now, his voice warm, and he knelt too, gathering Perkins close in his arms, coaxing his head against his shoulder. He held Perkins as he shivered and sobbed, one hand running soothingly up his tacky back, and then both coming around him to undo the knot holding Perkins’ hands together.

Untied, Perkins slumped further.

“Richard? Are you alright?” Ben asked, and Perkins wished he wouldn’t call him that, wouldn’t be so close, so calm, so kind. But he also didn’t want to be alone, didn’t know if he could stomach it, so he wrapped his arms around Ben’s thick middle and simply nodded.

Ben rocked them back and forth for a moment until Perkins felt like he was coming back to himself and wiped his face on Ben’s shoulder.

“Come on,” Ben said, and helped Perkins up with an arm around his chest, under his arms. “Lets get you in a bath.”

They walked together to the bathroom, Ben sitting Perkins down on the closed toilet seat and then moving to run a bath, checking the temperature was right from the tap. “It would be best to wash you down in a shower first,” he was saying, bustling about as if he were without come on his shoulder and piss on his trousers. Perkins watched him silently, too tired to give him an answer, too shaken to trust himself with his words.

“Would you oppose greatly?” Ben asked, standing in front of him. Perkins thought about it, thought about standing up in the shower for the sake of feeling clean, properly clean, and then sighed, shook his head, and pushed himself to stand. He pointedly ignored Ben’s offered hand and stepped into the shower.

“I will be in the kitchen,” Ben said, and Perkins didn’t even nod as he turned on the water and washed away most of the filth on his, in his hair, on his face, caught in his chest hair. Shivering from the cold water, he turned the shower off, stepped over to the bath, and slipped into it.

It was hot, maybe too hot on his bruised behind, but Perkins grit his teeth until the sting subsided, turning off the tap with his toe and sighing contentedly. The sounds of Ben putting away the rest of the groceries echoed in from the open door, and then the sound of a bucket being filled with water. Perkins closed his eyes, sank further into the tub, and tried not to think about what this meant for his life.

 


End file.
